


Moveless Woe

by meh_guh



Series: Tony the Polyglot and his Sneaky Sniper Boyfriend [9]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Canon Temporary Character Death, Grief, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2685020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meh_guh/pseuds/meh_guh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint at Phil's grave, some time between the Battle of New York and All Hail the Allspeak</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moveless Woe

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Grief" by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
> 
> Written in about 20 minutes while drunk, so caveat lector for shittiness and too many feels

Unsurprisingly, cemeteries tend to be peaceful places.

Clint quite enjoys them ordinarily, absent AIM trying to disseminate zombie viruses and Hydra using crypts as really shitty-quality secret bases then using fucking femurs and skulls as projectiles.

Cemeteries tend to be green and quiet and still, which are all qualities Clint appreciates (well, “green” is good in principle, Clint supposes, but he's got no especially-vested interest in it).

Clint could have brought flowers, but the money will doubtless see better use in the charity he donated to, and anyway Phil always hated the cookie-cutter romance BS Hallmark was always hocking. It seems a better option to use his money for a practical purpose anyway; one of the many points Clint and Phil agreed on, and it's nice to have something real to cling to.

Clint takes a moment to get his breathing under control; this is the first time he's been here, since National Security conspired with SHIELD's fucking psych unit to keep the brainwashed traitor away from a small friends-and-family funeral for some bland accountant from Illinois.

Clint inhales once, then forces the air and his anger out in one harsh breath. This isn't the time or the place.

By rights, Phil ought to be in Arlington. By rights, he ought to have a statue alongside the goofy one of Cap and Bucky out below the Statue of Liberty, but Clint's been in the spy game for far too many years not to know how this shit plays out.

Secret agents hardly ever get mourned, so Phil's lucky that way, he guesses. Their remains are returned to American soil even less often, so that right there is a fucking lottery win, isn't it?

The funeral happened in a bit of a rush, so Phil isn't even next to his folks, but Clint isn't exactly sure whether Phil would've cared. It's entirely possible he had a stipulation in his will asking to be buried anywhere _but_ where George and Betty were.

They may have been co-workers who basically lived together, and Clint may have been hopelessly in love, but there hadn't been a force on Earth that could make Phil Coulson share anything not explicitly need-to-know.

Clint makes his way down the neat lines of graves until he's standing in front of Phil's.

'Hey,' he says, because Clint's never been a sparkling conversationalist. Phil stays silent, which Clint feels a little guilty about feeling so much relief over. It's possible that joining the Avengers may have skewed his view of reality _just a little_.

Clint clenches his fists in his jeans pockets and kicks at the dirt at the edge of Phil's grave.

'So you're a massive jerk,' Clint says when he finally accepts how he's going to have to do his own talking rather than rely on Phil's telepathy. 'Seriously; going off and getting killed? Coulson, you disappoint me.'

A bird sings out from the treeline, but Clint's been around long enough to ID it as bog-standard bird noise, not anything to worry about. He closes his eyes and does a quick count down from twenty in Russian to calm down.

'Jesus, Coulson,' Clint takes the step over to the ever-so-tasteful grey marble headstone and slides down so he's cured up between Phil's head and the impassive stone. 'I get why you did it, but _why did you have to do it?_ '

It's probably ( _definitely_ ) an indictment on the fucking ridiculous direction Clint's life has taken recently, but he actually lets out a sigh when there isn't a response.

He shifts a little to get more comfortable on the sprouting grass. 'Reckon you'd come flying out of there to right the wrong if you knew what Fury did to get the dingleberries to co-operate against an alien invasion.'

He pauses, only about 3% convinced that Phil clawing his way out of the cold earth to avenge his nerdular collection is a possibility, but still disappointed when he's right.

'Fine,' Clint leans against the marble and lets his hand come to rest over the “beloved” in “beloved son”. 'Stay dead. Kill the Coulson legend once and for all; Natasha'll be miffed she won this way, but if you're going to be a little bitch and stay dea-'

Clint swallows rather than choke on the word.

'You were the first person ever believed in me for something other than my aim,' Clint says once he's crammed the pain back into the lock-box inside his chest. 'You made me better than I was and I'll never get the chance to pay you back for that, but I want you to know that every day and everything I do is a direct tribute to you. So consider yourself on fucking notice from everyone, because I am a fucking mess without you to keep me on track.'

Clint digs his nails into his palm and takes a few lamaze breaths (hey, if it's good enough to make getting an actual fucking _person_ out through someone's fun parts, it's good enough for a secret agent-slash-assassin on the verge of a meltdown).

'OK. So stay dead if you wanna,' Clint closes his eyes and wishes he could cry over his fucking noble dead arsehole boyfriend. 'But I'm pretty sure you've only got a few months before people are chasing your incorporeal butt down to lodge complaints.'

Phil continues his silent treatment, and Clint feels something deep in his chest crack.

'Right,' the hand over the carving on the headstone curls into a fist without Clint even thinking about it. 'Sure. You're dead and I'm suddenly a superhero. Guess the world decided making sense was so two years ago, huh?'

The calm of the graveyard spreads through Clint's mind, dulling the sharp spikes of his anger and grief, so Clint relaxes and leans his forehead against Phil's headstone.

'I love you, Phil,' he whispers. 'And I fucking hate you for leaving me behind.'

Phil remains silent, but after a moment, Clint's Avengers communicator chirps.

He takes ten seconds to drag everything back inside, presses his palm against the headstone one last time, the goes off to save the world again.


End file.
